Lost and Found

When the bell rang, I expected the usual; a package, someone wanting to save my soul. But standing there was someone I believed I knew. I didn’t recognize them, for there was nothing familiar about the person standing on the stoop with a package in his hand. My mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that someone had delivered a package to the wrong address and the mistake was being corrected by being delivered to the correct address.

The person however did not hold out the package as I expected, but clutched it closer to him, as if afraid it might escape. The man took a step back as a tear formed in his eye. I watched as he blinked sending it sliding down his cheek and become immersed in his white beard.

“Can I help you?” my words not sufficient, but what do you say to a stranger who just stares as though you were the turkey on the table at Thanksgiving. He remained silent as if unable to speak. And then he smiled. Not the smile of happiness, but one of understanding, finality. It was as if he were giving me permission to exist. 

He wore a long trench coat with a collar of what appeared to be fake fur; matted and balding. His hat was of a vintage no longer worn; gray felt, a faded black band, a small feather that reminded me of a blue jay. His hands gripping the package; gnarled, cracked, the nails chewed quick.

I looked once again at his face. The crevasses deep and long, like fissures of a frozen lake. His eyes cloudy, blue, as if they couldn’t make up their mind what color to be that day. He slouched, as though so tired, it took all the energy he could muster to remain standing. His booted feet shuffling in place as if he were marching before a review stand full of dignitaries. 

The awkwardness of the moment became apparent as I continued to survey his presence. He remained unspeaking but began to look about as if attempting to contemplate the state of my existence. His eyes followed the clap board siding to the end rail and then reached upwards encompassing the slate roof, bringing a slight smile to his thin lips.

I watched as he pulled eye glasses from his shirt pocket, and rested them on his nose, pulling the bent wires that grew from the frames behind his ears. He continued to look past me into the house, his smile becoming broader as though surprised by the audacity of the furnishings. He then examined the door, his eyes coming to rest on the brass knocker engraved with the name Nelson, that of the previous owner.

I began to contemplate calling someone, perhaps the police. But what could I say. He was simply standing on my stoop surveying the house, and I assumed me. He was physically not intimidating as I believed a slight breeze could cause him to loose his balance. It was however not the lack of words, or his appearance that caused some trepidation in my thinking, but the package. 

All the usual questions explode in your mind when confronted with an abnormal situation. A gift, a bomb, a mistake, and for me, a stranger who stands before me questioning questioning my very existence. I had the urge to reach out and touch him, but I feared the result. I am not prone to exaggeration, or spiritual missteps, but have been accused of having an overactive imagination when confused.

I considered asking again if I could help him, but found his total demeanor to be one of obliviousness. He was here, before me, and yet he wasn’t. I felt as if I was watching a movie where the characters although visible, seemingly tangible, even though I knew they are an illusion of mind and spirit captured on film by cameras and chemicals. The depictions aren’t real, although they had been, perhaps still are, but what you are seeing is not.

Then I began to wonder, what I was to him. Did I appear an illusion and therefore he was unsure of how to engage with me? I have been told that at times I tend to slip away to a place, where I am unaware of what is going on around me. I’ve never been certain of that fact, but now with this person standing before me as if I don’t exist, I can no longer be certain.

I began to study him more closely in hopes of finding a clue as to how I should proceed. The more I scanned this figure, the greater became the feeling that I knew this person. The eyes, they looked familiar. The hands, long thin fingers like those of a musician. I looked at my own hands for reassurance.  

The hair protruding from the hat, curly, similar to my own. His build, slight, but then I know, age has a tendency to either add or subtract, depending upon principals of a past you have had no control over. 

If he would speak, I was sure I could pick up some valuable insight into his being.  But he remained silent, as if his silence was being used to determine how I would react, what I would, or would not do. 

I felt the urge for some reason to invite him in. I lived alone, there was no one but myself to disturb. But then what if I was wrong and he was nefarious. It was highly unlikely, and I had been working on my eagerness to interject fear into anything, out of my ordinary. I believed it had to do mainly with exposure to violence perpetrated by the media. But unless there was a fabricated train derailment, causing traffic delays for hours, bad things did happen.

And then, as I contemplated what to do, he brushed past me with the grace of a ballet dancer and stood at the edge of the vestibule looking into my den.  It was my favorite room as it held all my books, walls of them. I was alone, everyone gone, the books were now my family, my vacations, my salvation from the tedium of growing old.

I was surprised by his quick movement, but even more surprised by his present stance. He stood, seemingly more erect than previously. He’d taken off his hat and his white hair had become more the color of cookies and cream, my favorite indulgence. He stood; eyes trained on my chair before the fireplace. It is where I spend most of my time. Something about a fire and a good book that makes me feel forty years younger. One day I even found myself dancing to the music in my head. It was rather wonderful.

I of course just had to see what he was looking at. I stood beside him, and to my surprise he, I, was looking at me. I appeared to be asleep, which is not an abnormality. I find myself napping more these days as it relieves the eye strain of reading, but also transports me to places. It’s a win, win, as they say.

It then dawned on me, that it couldn’t be me sitting in the chair, for if it was, then who was I. It was then he turned to me and smiled, holding out the package. I didn’t know quite what to do, but I took it. His eyes suggested I open it. 

Inside was a pin, an onyx stone engraved with just one word, “Father.” I remembered the times we wandered in search of stones. Now this, what could it mean. 

If I am here, and I am there, it can mean only one thing.

“Glad to see you again,” his voice, my voice, arms extended, hands clasped. And then I didn’t wake up.